


Waking World

by Missy



Category: Little Women - Louisa May Alcott
Genre: Courtship, Drama, Dreams, Escapism, F/M, Fantasizing, Fantasy, Humor, Marriage, New York, Paris (City), Romance, Sisters, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:59:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How the March girls, in their infinitely various ways, dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waking World

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Cottoncandy_Bingo, Round 1, prompt: Dreams

Meg pulled up a handful of bright orange carrots with her bare hand and dropped them into the wooden bucket. Black, rich soil caked her fingers, and she wiped them clean on her apron, laughing briefly as she remembered her old daintiness. Some part of her mind remained conscious of the setting sunlight, the mewling sounds of her babies taking their afternoon nap, and the dinner John would be expecting when he returned from his usual rounds.

But as she pulled onions and weeded turnips, the richer part of Meg’s mind flew away, back to the swirling skirts, low moaning fiddles, and a social scene she had once declared herself fully unequipped to deal with. How ruefully she wished for the girlish swirl of laughing, happy friends now! 

Later, over an improved dinner and the cries of her half-sleepy children, she smiled at her husband and realized why the yearning for such gay, silly times had returned. They had receded into her dreams and this world – the better one – was her reality.

*** 

“Josephine!”

Jo followed the drumbeat of a knock and the accented yelp of a shout like a sparrow divebombing toward a worm, grabbing the hem of her skirt and raced toward the back door, hefting the bolt and admitting a rush of hot air into the servant’s kitchen. “Jupiter’s nightgown!” she blustered, admitting Professor Bhaer. “It’s half-past six.”

“And you should be at church,” Friedrich declared, taking off his hat and resting it on the damp butcher’s block by the stove. 

“I’m going to the afternoon service,” she declared, gesturing toward the ceiling. “One of the girls woke up with a cough this morning, and I was cordially elected to stay behind.” Then, she added, “Just as well, because I slept in late.”

“Why did you sleep in?” he wondered, already knowing her 

“I was,” she informed him, “having a terrible nightmare.” Then, freshly, she added, “why did you come in the back way? You’re lucky I was home…”

“I was hoping to surprise you.” She raised an eyebrow. “The nightmare?”

“Why do you want to hear about that?”

“Because, Miss March, the workings of your mine are completely fascinating.” 

She smiled. “Are you a psychiatrist too?” 

“Please go on.” 

“Well…” Jo smoothed the collar of her day dress and folded her palms. “You were in it.”

He looked up, his dark eyes flaring in clear surprise for just a moment before regaining their insouciance. “Oh?” he wondered, playing with the stem of the apple.

“We were running from the Slasher of Border Street, and then we tripped on the curb, and into a gutter teaming with blood.” She shivered. 

He laughed, but it wasn’t in a condescending way. “That series the Journal’s been publishing? Those stories are awful. Why do you waste your time with them?”

Jo puffed up, instantly offended. “If I don’t read them,” she declared, “I’ll never write a capitol story like Mr. Dickens. An author needs to broaden her understanding of the human condition.” 

“Da, especially the ones that include heaving bosoms and blood-soaked handkerchiefs.” 

Jo beamed. “Why you sound like a regular fan of Mister Bartholomew’s work!” He gave another dismissive snort, peeling the apple with his fingernail before tucking into it. “Why are you here, Friedrich?”

That total directness of hers made him choke for just a moment, and Jo gave the professor a sharp whack on the back, and he sharply cleared his throat. “Breakfast,” he choked out, taking the cup of tea she’d offered. It immediately calmed his vocal chords, and his request came booming out. “Would you like to go to breakfast? Afterwards, we’ll go to the service.”

“Well,” she considered. “I suppose it’s not a tub of blood – but it will do, if you’re willing to wait for the family to come home. It shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes.” 

She poured herself a cup of coffee and settled down beside the professor, both of them involuntarily turning their eyes toward the great clock in the hallway, waiting for the chimes that would free them.

*** 

The needle was as heavy as a stone between her fingers. That, Beth decided, was a small improvement over the brick it had been yesterday. 

“Perhaps if I keep working,” she said to the empty room, “it will become a pebble by noon.”

Nothing answered her now – not even Marmee, who had left in the morning to shop in town. Father was at the school – aside.

Beth was no longer a child, and yet she was forever labeled as such, an invalid. They did not trust her to walk across the room to the door, much less let her out to dance and sled with the other girls her age. 

Though she tried ever to be sweet and good, Beth could not deny the bitterness that rolled in like a fog over her every night. Normal girls did not fall permanently fallow at the heels of childhood illness. The fever did not weaken them to the point of such wild susceptibility that any small chill wracked her with fever and pain.

In her dreams, there was secret refuge. There, she could travel to the French countrysides Amy bragged of, dance among the twilight stars and eat the sweetest pastries without growing ill. 

The needle felt like a wagonwheel now. Sighing, Beth set it aside. 

She closed her eyes and drifted off to the world where she danced in a velvet ballgown on the arm of Laurie.

*** 

_There was a hollow in a ring of flowers, and Amy could not run through it quickly enough. At the very center stood her dark-curled sister, standing in her favorite dress, laughing her merry laugh._

_“Oh Jo,” Amy panted, laughing as she wrapped her hand around her sister’s wrist. “You’ve come to…”_

_But the woman she whipped around. “You took my chance, Amy. I’ll die where you live…”_

_The ground splintered, roots shooting from the dirt to grasp and pull at Amy’s hem. She shrieked and reared backward. Through the corner of her eye, she saw the branches grow and reach for her. They pulled at her curls, causing her to emit a scream._

Beth flew into a sitting position, her hands going to her mussed blonde head. Frantically, she reassessed herself – was she…yes, she was fine. 

Shakily, she dressed for her morning chocolate with Aunt March, then walked to her sketching class. Standing on the Sine with charcoal in hand, peace overcame Amy. She could still create beauty of the nightmare she’d experienced – something she’d tried to convince the still unfortunately dissolute Laurie. Something she knew from the depths of her heart now – she would straighten him out, for her family, his beloved Grandfather, and dear, dear Jo.

She painted the trees with their lovely flame crowns and sat back, satisfied with her art. If the trees were her fears, then her fears could not be real.

Could they?

THE END


End file.
